Cancelled
by catko
Summary: Sam deals with an inconvenient soul power and a pissed-off soul. Timeline is slightly alternate; see if you can spot it. No spoilers, just silly. So glad it didn’t have to happen this way.


Rated: PG-13, some language  
Disclaimer: Reaper is a wonderful show created by Tara Butters and Michele Fazekas, not me.

Summary: Sam deals with an inconvenient soul power and a pissed-off soul. Timeline is slightly alternate; see if you can spot it. No spoilers, just silly. So glad it didn't have to happen this way.  
A/N: This is for, and thanks to, the groovy Reaper crew at TWoP, since it is mostly their ideas. Especially Stinger, who may not remember that he suggested the power and the vessel.

**Cancelled**

Running through the forest, footsteps scrunching, a roaring sound behind him. Quick glance back, yeah, still being chased by the shimmery shape, tripping, falling face-down into a whoosh of leaves and dirt. Turning to rise, the shimmer looms over him, and--

_Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!_

Sam lurches up, as the towering trees, heart-pounding terror, and his own hoarse screeching…

...shape-shift into green bedroom walls, his bare torso in the dresser mirror, and "I Got You, Babe" blaring from the clock radio. He slumps over with combined annoyance and relief, hits the button on the radio, and swings his legs out of bed. Hitches up his boxers, and stumbles to the bathroom, where he looks blearily again at his own reflection and tries to come back to this reality.

It always happens, for at least a week after, the soul-capture invading his dreams. Sucks, not so much the fear, but more that sinking feeling of "Aw, crap, the soul got OUT? Now we gotta catch him"—or her—"again?" Anyway, it's just a nightmare. Unlike his real life which is so peachy keen. Grimacing at himself, he drops his shorts and gets into the shower. The water hits him full in the face and runs down his chest, as he lathers himself and thinks about nothing.

Later, half-dressed and arranging his hair, he idly considers the day ahead. Not much to look forward to. Electronics department, which _also _sucks because the customers are so hyped about buying a _home theater system_, they turn into arrogant assholes. Well, they're probably arrogant assholes to begin with, they'll just be sharing that fine quality with _him _today. Plus, all those flickering screens give him a major headache. Great. He scrutinizes his face, turning from side to side. Hair, lookin' good. Shave? Fine on this side, but from this angle—oops, it's getting late; better leave it.

He grabs the shirt he'd hung on the door the night before. _Score _for choosing wardrobe in advance—makes the morning so much easier. What does Ted's poster say? "Preparation is three-quarters motivation and one-quarter mastur-" Uh, no, wait, that was Sock's version. Whatever. Buttoning up, he trots downstairs, gulps some O.J. straight from the carton, and goes out the front door.

The cool morning air hits his face and… chest? He looks down at his own smooth, bare skin. What the fuck happened to his shirt? Thinks hard for a minute. Could I have forgotten…? Shrugs, heads inside and back upstairs.

_Still later…._  
"Yuh-ello, Sammy, where the hell are you? We clocked you in, but it's tough to lie to Ted about you being in the bathroom, or storeroom, or--well, no, I'm kidding, it's not tough at all. But you gonna show, or not?"

Sam, hissing. "Sock, shut up and listen. I can't go out. I can't seem to—I keep getting—my shirt keeps disappearing. I can't go anywhere. Except maybe the beach. Or a bathhouse. Or some other topless …location. It must be the Devil, something to do with the next soul."

"Oh-ho, excellent! You must come in. Naked, wearin' the Blue. It certainly would be good with the ladies. And a few dudes, too, no doubt. You could be the most popular Bench employee ever, my friend."

"Not _naked_, you idiot, just shir—never mind. Just keep covering for me. I'll see you later."

Flipping shut his cel, Sam sinks down on the bed, catching sight of himself in the mirror. Just my luck, he mouths, I finally got my hair just right, and I can't go out because I can't wear a god-damned—

"Whoa, Sam, watch the language, please! You know I don't like to hear those two words together." The Devil appears in the mirror, smoothing his own hair. "Show some sympathy. I'm having a tough day."

"_You _are? What about me?"

"That's just like you, isn't it, Sam? Always me, me, me. You might try thinking about your fellow creatures once in a while."

Sam sighs. "Just give me the vessel and tell me about the soul, will you? I can't sit around like this all day."

"What's your hurry, man? The Sam I used to know would have loved to 'hang out' doing nothing. Now it's busy, busy, busy. Getting all diligent, are we? Diligence is a virtue, Sam. And you know how I feel about virtues."

Sam rolls his eyes. "I. Really. Don't. Care. Let's do this thing so I can get back to normal. I mean, I can't go to work with no shirt. A Work Bench apron over a bare chest? I'd look like a low-end male stripper."

The Devil flashes a big smile. "Hey, buddy, you could do worse." Sam glares. "Oh, very well, if you insist." The Devil holds out an old-style Sony Watchman. On the screen is a blurry security-camera vid, a young woman with long black hair walking into a reception area. She starts gesturing wildly and waving around some kind of weapon. The receptionist jumps up, a security guard enters the scene. There's a scuffle, a flash of light, and the screen flares out—an explosion. The Devil tsk-tsks. "Took out half the building, sixteen people, and herself, Sam. It was a television station. Local affiliate."

Sam stares at the blank screen. "But why? What was her problem?"

"Her name was Anastasia. Seems the network cancelled her favorite television show, last season. It just didn't get the ratings. She couldn't handle it, tried to take the station hostage. You saw for yourself how that went. Now she's back—and she's still mad."

The little screen sputters to life, new images reel. Exploded television sets with bodies laid out around them. Sam flinches. "So the soul is going around killing people who are watching TV?"

"Watching rival shows, Sam. She hates any show that survived when hers didn't. All you have to do is find a location where these shows are playing. She's bound to appear at one of them."

"But that's impossible," Sam bleats. "There must be millions of people who are—"

"That's your problem, Sam, not mine. Now I suggest you quit your whining, and get on with it. Can't keep hiding yourself in here, you know." He pats Sam's bare shoulder and disappears. In his place, the familiar wooden box. Sam bends down and opens it, brushes away the smoke, and sees, nestled there…a TV remote control.

_That afternoon..._  
Sam pulls up at the Work Bench and gets out of his car. Tucks in a dangling white strip hanging off his shoulder and tries to adjust his apron for more coverage. Sees Ben a few cars over, pushing an empty cart. "Hey, Ben, Ben!" Ben squints at him, tries to smile, but looks alarmed. "Sam? What are you wearing? You look like the Curse of the Mummy."

Resignedly, Sam says, "I know, I know. I had to wrap a bunch of gauze around myself. It's the only thing that'll—never mind. Come on, help me. We gotta do some research."

...

Ben turns away from the computer screen and grabs a sheet of paper from the printer. "Well, it looks like, given what the police reports said about her so-called favorite show, she might consider some of these to be rivals. What do we do now?"

Sam frowns at the page. "With all the households who watch these shows, we'll never find her out there. We'll have to lure her somewhere." Absent-mindedly tugging at his gauzy neckline, he looks up, around the store. His eyes light on the Electronics Department. "I know! Play one of these shows here, here at the Bench! Draw her to us and capture her."

Ben looks dubious. "I don't know, Sam. Doing things here at the Bench, that hasn't worked out so hot. All the damage we've caused. And potential hardware that can hurt us." Sam claps him on the back. "No, Benji, it's the only way. We'll be ready this time, I swear. We'll do it tonight, after the store's closed. Tell Sock. I'm heading back home to change my gauze."

_That night…_  
"Sam, never in my life have I worked so hard in this place as I did tonight. Hooking up 40 televisions to one TiVo. You owe me, dude. You owe me so big." Sock thrusts his thick finger in Sam's face.

Sam slaps the big hand away. "Okay, okay. Let's just concentrate on getting the soul. We can wait over here and turn everything on. It'll be such a strong signal, she won't be able to resist. And help me take this stupid gauze off. It's starting to bug me. I never thought I'd look forward so much to wearing a shirt again."

A click, and the wall of flat-screens flare into light. A theme song blasts in with handclaps, and jittery images of glamorous youth fill the back of the showroom. Sam, Sock and Ben hunker down behind a row of shelves, ready for reaping.

_Forty-five minutes later…_  
Sam, his Work Bench apron itchy on his bare torso, peers through the shelving at the front doors, then slumps back onto the floor. "No sign of her."

"Oh, MAN." Sock is lying on his back, his head on a reconditioned VCR, fiddling with his fingers. "How much longer is this gonna take? That show is melting my brain! Rich kids, New York? This SUCKS! Who CARES?!"

"Oh, I don't know. I think the characters are quite compelling." Ben is watching the TVs, rapt. "I just can't help wondering whether Blair will ever get with—"

Suddenly, a high-pitched hum fills the air, and intensifies. The three exchange glances, and get slowly to their feet. The front of the store is filled with an eerie blue light. The doors swoosh open, and they see her—a female figure, hair flying in the electric glow. Like the little girl in Poltergeist. Like a bad UHF channel come to life.

They freeze for a moment. Then Sam pushes his way past, around the shelves, and into the open. Legs braced, holding out the remote in both hands, he yells over the throbbing hum, "Anastasia! I'm sorry! But I have to send you back to Hell!"

Her voice shoots out. "I must stop this travesty! It must end now!" Raises her hands toward the bank of TVs, where a sparkly party scene is being repeated, over and over and over.

"You can't keep killing people over a TV show! It's not worth it!"

"You don't understand. I lived for that show! So we didn't have the ratings! We were making it up in the time-shifted audience! We couldn't pull in the right demographic? They put the actors in layers and layers of clothing! They kept switching our night and pre-empting us for baseball. They never gave us the proper promotion. THEY NEVER GAVE US A CHANCE. Well, if I can't watch my show, no other show can survive!"

She starts to pulsate, the glow rolling off her fingertips. The whole store is awash in electrified light. Behind the crackling static, voices shouting, Sock and Ben. "Do it, Sam, click it! What are you waiting for? Change the channel! ZAP HER!"

Sam steadies himself, adjusts his aim, and, as she turns her energy toward him, presses the power button. An insane current shoots between them; he feels his bare skin tingle and his hair stand on end. It's like the force is lifting him off the ground. He scrunches his face against the onslaught, presses harder. He looks into her eyes just in time to see her break into a million pixels and get whooshed into the remote control. Sends him flying backward, on his ass. As usual.

_Leaving the Bench..._  
"All that, over a stupid failed TV series. I mean, who does that?" Sock waves his arms, aggrieved.

"Some people really care about their shows, Sock. They get into that world, and the characters become like their friends. I guess she just missed seeing them in her home every week. I can kind of understand it." Absently, Sam scratches his bare chest under the apron with the remote control in his hand.

"Yeah, it's sad, but, after all," Ben shakes his head as they move out toward the car, "You know she could've just waited for the DVDs."


End file.
